Moonstone Promise (21 page)

Luke stared up at the black ceiling. He wouldn't sleep here, he knew. The place was so unfamiliar after sleeping under a wide open sky – it was like wrapping a cold wet blanket around his already freezing body. But it was better than being out on the streets. He could already hear drunken voices.

He reached for the moonstone and found a bare throat, patted the front of his chest and pulled the collar of his jersey up. He ripped the shirt off. ‘Where's my moonstone?'

Maybe he had put it in his pack without thinking; he grabbed it and tore it open. He scooped out the old socks, knife, maps, dried-out mandarin skins and greasy burger wrappers, threw it all on the floor and turned the pack inside out. Shook it, flung it around, slapped it against the wall. Then he hurled it across the kitchenette and watched it land on a pile of unwashed plates. A glass fell off the sink and smashed on the floor.

‘Damn it,' he yelled, ‘
damn everything!
'

Luke threw himself backwards onto the couch and put his hands over his face. ‘It was all I had,' he groaned through his fingers.

His last connection to Coachwood Crossing was gone. He pulled his hands away from his face and let them hang limp down by his sides. He stared at the ceiling for a while, then rolled his head and stared out into the studio.

There was a telephone among the clutter on the sales desk. He could ring Jess and talk to her, ask how Annie was going, who was riding Legsy now, if any of the mares had foaled yet. It might help fill this empty gaping cavern in his chest. He closed his eyes and thought of her voice. Imagined it on the other end of the phone, making him laugh.

But a wave of hollow loss forced his eyes open again. He couldn't think of Jess without seeing the green river flats and the dense line of trees running along banks, without feeling a gentler sun on his skin and smelling freshly cut clover. He breathed deeply. Nope. It did him no good to think about anyone from Coachwood Crossing. He walked out to the studio.

There were a lot of touristy dot paintings in gaudy kindergarten colours, some funky fat witchetty grub pictures, bark paintings and hand stencils, all by different artists. But the huge contemporary paintings along the northern wall took his breath away. They were unbelievably intricate and reflected the greens, ochres and browns of the local country. He could see the spinifex, the chestnut-red boulders and golden grass, chalk-white tree bark; all in soft, irregular shapes with rivers of dots flowing between them. He could imagine the brumbies running through the painting and had an overwhelming urge to put his palms out and place them flat on the canvas so he could feel the earth.

At eight-thirty the next morning, Luke left a twenty-dollar note on the sales desk and let himself out through the back door.

At the local shopping centre, he washed down a couple of bananas with a can of no-name cola and looked through his wallet. It was such a bummer that he hadn't collected his winnings. All he had was a paltry ten bucks.

He needed a job, quickly. He tried to make himself look half-decent in the shopping centre toilets, washing his face, straightening out Pete's rugby jersey and combing his fingers through his hair. He rubbed a finger over his teeth, took one last glance in the mirror and hoped his grubby appearance would at least make him look like he'd been working hard.

Then he walked back out to the hot, dry streets. He would ask every station man that he saw if they knew of any work. He wouldn't stop until he found something.

Approaching people got easier after he had done it a few times. He waited outside a farm supply store and accosted the stockmen as they got out of their cars. After a while, he just asked everyone – women, children, old men, young men, black, white. Someone would have to know of something.

‘Hi, mate. I'm looking for work – do you know if there's anything around?'

‘I'm on the hunt for some work . . . Okay.'

‘Don't know of any work going, do you, mate?'

‘Hi, my name's Luke.' Quick nod. ‘I'm trying to find some work.'

He collected a few phone numbers of people who might have something and found a phone box, but they all came to a dead end. He got plenty of head-scratching, thoughtful looks, best wishes, even semi-interviews, but by the time the store closed its gates at five, nothing had come up and he was left sitting in the gutter with an empty stomach and nowhere to go.

Talia unlocked the studio door and let him in. ‘Don't interrupt me, I'm having an epiphany,' she said as she locked it behind him and walked to a large canvas lying flat on a table.

Luke went out the back door and held out his arms for the pups. They jumped up and lavished him with lasagne-scented kisses. ‘Smells like you guys had a better feed than me,' he said, rubbing their backs.

‘I fed them – they were driving me nuts. They've been crying all day,' said Talia from behind him.

Luke sniffed them again. They smelled like flowers.

‘I washed them too, they stank,' said Talia. ‘The yellow one loved it, but the black one tried to bite me.'

‘Sorry, they're a bit feral.'

‘Anyway, stop interrupting me.' Talia walked back inside.

Luke sat with his feet on the couch for hours, watching Talia work. It was almost hypnotic to see a large canvas of red swirls come to life under the careful strokes of her brushes. She hummed a tune from a children's television show as she worked.
Tobeee, Tobeee, everybody loves
Tobeee . . .

‘I don't have any more money to pay you,' he said.

‘Shh,' she hissed.

‘But I can pay you back when—'

‘Shut up or get out!'

He shut up, rolled over on the couch and drifted in and out of sleep. When he woke in the morning she was gone and the canvas was finished. It was extraordinary – fiery and swirly, with eyes in it.

There was half a loaf of stale white bread on the kitchen sink. He ate most of it and made a cup of tea. Outside, he crouched down and ran his hands over the dogs' big bony heads. ‘I can't take you with me, guys. But I think Talia likes you and she'll take good care of you.'

Filth let out a loud whine and leapt at him. ‘Don't make it any harder,' Luke whispered. ‘There's nothing else I can do. I just need a hand until I can find a job, then maybe I can come back and get you.'

It wouldn't be too bad. No worse than staying here and scabbing off a total stranger. The department of community services would probably find some hostel or somewhere he could stay. He looked around for something to tether the pups to and found a pipe running down the side of the toilet building. He gave Filth and Fang a last pat, slung his pack onto his shoulder and walked out onto the street, trying to ignore the yelps.

25

HE FOUND A
public phone in town with a battered yellow block of pissed-on pages. An old man in a beanie sat staring at him from a nearby bench. ‘It's broken, ay,' he mumbled.

‘I was looking for the phone book,' said Luke. ‘Do you know where Centrelink is?'

‘It's broken,' the man mumbled again and then proceeded to tell Luke what he thought of all Centrelink employees.

Luke looked around for someone else to ask.

‘Got a dollar?' the man asked.

Luke fumbled in his pockets and took out his last few goldies. ‘If I'm gonna be broke, I may as well be stony broke.' He let them drop into the man's gnarly old hand and set off to find Centrelink. It wasn't a huge town – he'd find it sooner or later. As soon as they looked up his details they'd find out he was a missing person.

A car on the other side of the road honked. Luke looked up briefly. It was a Landcruiser ute, one of hundreds around here. Nothing to do with him. He put his head down and kept walking. It honked again and he ignored it.

‘Luke.'

It was a man's voice, a Coachwood Crossing voice. He'd know it anywhere. Luke spun around. On the other side of the road, a man in his thirties, tall, with a big hat and big boots, closed the door of the ute and began walking across the road.

Luke could barely believe his eyes. ‘Lawson?'

Lawson walked straight at him, stopping a couple of metres away with his hands in his pockets, running his eyes over him.

Luke felt instantly self-conscious. His clothes were filthy and ill-fitting. He must look like hell.

‘Hey,' said Lawson.

Luke nodded a greeting, while his mind tried to adjust. What did Lawson want? What was he doing here?

‘How you been?' asked Lawson, his eyes resting momentarily on Luke's plastered arm.

‘All right, I s'pose.'

Strange silence.

‘Want to talk?'

‘About what?'

Lawson put his hands in his back pockets and shrugged. ‘Everything.'

Luke's head spun. He had just shut off all hope of ever making Coachwood Crossing his home again. He was walking in another direction. And now, here was Lawson, standing right in front of him, asking him to open it all back up.

‘Come and have a beer,' said Lawson, tilting his head towards the pub over the road and looking at his watch. ‘Not quite beer o'clock yet, but we could call ourselves shift workers for the morning.'

‘Bouncer in that pub already kicked me out.'

‘He won't if you're with me,' said Lawson. ‘Come on.' He began to cross the road and looked back to see if Luke was coming.

Luke followed cautiously and Lawson waited for him to catch up. They walked side by side, both with their hands in their pockets.

In a quiet courtyard out the back, Lawson put two beers on the table and sat down. Luke left his untouched and waited for Lawson to speak, wondering what the hell was worth a three-day drive to come and talk about.

Lawson stared into his glass and picked at the calluses on his fingers. ‘Been thinking about what you said,' he muttered after a while. ‘You're right, Harry was the only family I had. Feel like a part of myself's died.'

Luke stayed quiet
.

Lawson kept talking. ‘I'll never forget when he taught me to break in my first horse.' He smiled into his beer. ‘Dusty. He was a brumby. A herd-bound little fella, had the strongest sense of his mob. Harry made me do all the groundwork over and over, wouldn't let me even think of getting on him till I had his complete respect on the ground. He reckoned I'd never ever have a partnership with him unless I established myself as the leader.' Lawson laughed. ‘Imagine trying to teach that to a thirteen-year-old kid. God, I just wanted to get on him and ride the buck out of him.'

Luke couldn't help a small laugh. That was just so Lawson.

‘He was right, though,' said Lawson. ‘Sometimes if you want respect, you do have to step up, be a leader.'

‘So did the horse buck?'

‘Nup.' Lawson looked up and grinned. ‘I was so pissed off; my first breaker and barely a bloody pigroot. Where was the glory in that?' He shook his head. ‘Geez, that little brumby turned out to be a good horse, though.'

‘That why you went and rode rodeo for a while?'